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The Lost Eppisode of Mystery Diners
NOTE: The spelling/grammar errors in this story are intentional. Please do not edit them I’m a big fan of Mystery Diners, much like everyone else. Or at least, I WAS, until… the incident. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start from the beginning. I was a culinary arts teacher at the local middle school. During the classes in which the students would finish their work early or nothing was planned, we would watch Food Network™ shows. As stated before, I absolutely ADORED Mystery Diners, but still loved the other Food Network™ shows. One time, a student suggested we watch Cupcake Wars instead, but I told him that “we don’t watch that shit in here,” and gave him a failing grade for that semester. I loved Mystery Diners. I had all of the seasons in their original boxes and had DVR’d every eppisode. Or at least I thought I had them all. A friend of mine (who I will call by his Xbox gamertag, because I don’t think he would want to be directly named), FaZe_CoolGamerJD8, contacted me over the weekend, and told me that there was a lost eppisode of Mystery Diners, and I was like “WTF?! A lost eppisde?” “Yeah man. My friend apparently has a copy.” “Who's your friend?” “I'll give you his address.” He sent me the address. I immediately put the address into Google Earth, and saw that the house was more like a shack, falling apart at the seams. I hesitated. Did I really love Mystery Diners that much? Yes, I did, and I hopped into my car, plugged the address in, and started to drive. The drive was long, but I knew that I had reached my destination when the GPS said “you have reached your destination.” I got out, and walked over the dead grass and up the crumbling stairs to the front door. I knocked, and a shady man popped his head out of the door. He appeared to be in his late teenage years. He spoke. “Who are you?” “I’m FaZe_CoolGamerJD8’s friend. He should have told you that I was coming, no?” “Oh yeah, you. I have the eppisede right here.” He handed me the copy of the eppisode. It was in a neon green, almost see-through case, very much like an Xbox game case. There was nothing on the box art, just a piece of white lined paper that said, in crudely drawn letters, “ThE LoOost EPpIsoDe of MySTEry DIners.” I took the case and put it in my pocket. I looked back up at the man. “Thank you, but…” He cocked an eyebrow. “What?” “Where are your parents?” He suddenly had a one-thousand mile stare. “The eppisode.” “Oh...well thanks, uhhh, what's your name?” He nervously glanced left and then right. His gaze focused back on me. “Bootman Bill.” “Ah. Well thank you, Bootman Bill. Goodbye.” I turned, and began to walk away. He still stood there, staring at me. I hopped back into my car, and gave him one last look. He mouthed these words at me. “Watch for the drones.” Those words. I didn't understand stand them then, but I sure do now. If only I had listened, more people would still be alive, and I would still have my job. But I didn’t, and drove off. I arrived home a few hours later. It was getting dark. I went inside and opened the fridge to grab something for dinner. There was very little, except for a bowl of Hot Pockets and a can of orange Fanta. I took the Hot Pockets and microwaved them. While I waited for the Hot Pockets to heat up, I went to my old TV. I opened the case, and saw the disc itself. It had the standard Mystery Diners logo on it, except instead of “Mystery Diners,” it said “Commensali Misteriosi,” along with some additional writing that I couldn’t make out. I stood there for a moment, baffled by the fact that there was ITALIAN writing on an AMERICAN TV show’s disc. I figured it was just a way to avoid copyright, or it was just some shoddy bootleg. My train of thought was broken by a faint POP emanating from the kitchen. I didn’t know what it could be, until I realized that I had left the Hot Pockets in the microwave for too long. I raced to the microwave, trying to keep the Hot Pockets, my only form of sustenance, from becoming nothing more than ooze on the side of my microwave. I ripped the door open, breaking one of the hinges. There was a sharp sizzling noise coming from the bowl. I leaned in closer, and grabbed the bowl. It was surprisingly hot, and I dropped it. The bowl shattered, scattering glass and Hot Pockets (both intact and popped) across the hardwood floor. “OH GAMMIT!!!” I screamed. Great. Now I was going to have to clean this up. I walked over to the sink and picked up a wet rag. However, before I could begin to pick up the glassy sludge that was supposed to serve as my dinner, I heard the eppisaode start. The mess would have to wait. It was Mystery Diners time! I sat down on the couch, not bothering to clean up the sauce stain that had formed on my crotch, outlining my thingy. “TONIGHT ON MYSTERY DINERS…” The announcer’s voice boomed out of the screen like it normally would. I sat there shifting uncomfortably, not because of the eppisode’s content (no, not yet, at least) but because the sauce was still warm. However, instead of a montage of clips playing like the show normally would play to outline the basic plot of an eppisoad, a title card faded in. It read “MYSTERY MEAT.” I didn’t think much of. Maybe the host and star of the show, Charles Stiles, wanted to try a new eppisode format. And the title? I figured that the investigated restaurant had gotten in trouble for the manhandling of meat. The announcer began to speak once again. “John O. Recchiette, owner of Gomorrah Bar and Inn, in Hartford, Connecticut, has been having problems with customer reviews.” “Lately the reviews have been overwhelmingly negative. I mean, it's been in the one to two star range lately. Most customers are complaining about how the food has tasted off, and has been giving people food poisoning. I-I really don't know what to do, it's cutting into my profit margins. I’m worried that it might go under,” John spoke, with an Italian accent. The camera had cut to a shot in front of him, sitting in a chair. “This place has been in my family for generations, and I’m not going to let misconduct or sabotage ruin this.” Wait, Gomorrah? I thought to myself. Isn't that one of the cities that God destroyed? The narrator spoke again. “Are the staff just incompetent, or is there something else going on?” What else could be going on? Is someone peeing on the meat in an attempt to season it? The eppisode continued, with Charles Stiles walking into the restaurant. But something seemed off about him. For one, his skin seemed much baggier than usual, and his eyes were sunken with dark rings surrounding them. He walked with a slight limp, and kept coughing like he had tuberculosis. John and started walking over to Charles. He reached out his hand for a handshake. “Hey Charles, how are ya’?” Charles clasped John’s hand and gave it a firm shake, and greeted him back. “Charles Stiles, Mystery Diners. So what seems to be the problem?” “It's pretty simple. Someone, or something, has been screwing with our meat. I wanna find out who, or what, is doing this, and if it's an employee, find out why.” Charles nodded. “Well that sounds like a plan to me. You know the procedure for Mystery Diners don't you?” “Oh of course. Why wouldn't I? I contacted you, after all.” The epissodee had seemed normal so far, except for one thing. Whenever anyone said a name or “Mystery Diners,” those words (and those words only) would be distorted, like someone wanted to remove all traces of evidence that condemned Mystery Diners. And what was up with Charles Stiles’ appearance? He was normally such a happy-go-lucky guy, why was he so depressed and sick? Was it an act? A costume? Some expert computer hacking? A sick joke? Or was Charles actually DYING?! The eppide continued, moving onto a montage of showing where they were putting secret cameras to keep an eye on the staff and customers. “In order to stake out Gomorrah Bar and Inn, cameras have been set up in key locations. Five cameras have been set up in the bar area. Four cameras have been set up in the dining area. Three cameras have been set up in the kitchen. Two cameras have been set up in the back parking lot. Two cameras have been set up in the meat storage area...” The MEAT STORAGE AREA?! Why would anyone set up cameras in there? “...One camera has been set up in each hotel room…” Doesn’t that count as an invasion of PRIVACY?! “...and one camera has been set up in your house.” I was taken aback by this. A camera? In MY house?! I turned around to look for the camera. I noticed an old hyper-realistic painting that was hung up on my wall. The eyes of the man in the painting had been cut out, revealing the camera hidden behind it. The mouth of the man opened, and a shotgun barrel belonging to a KS-23 slid out. “Keeeep Waaaaatchiiiiing.” I turned around to see where the voice was coming from. It was a close up of Charles Stiles! He continued to talk. “Unless you want your head to look like what your bowl of Hot Pockets looks like now, then keeeep waaaaatchiiiiing.” Static blurred the screen, returning to the eppiseed, and continued from where it had left off. “Our key suspects are-” The sound cut out, but the eppidse kept playing. There was only one suspect: Johnson Bream. I couldn’t believe it. It was my old math teacher! He was now the manager of the restaurant. The eppidodd transitioned to who the undercover operatives for this eppididi. The sound returned, but not for long. “Our undercover Mystery Diners for tonight are-” The sound cut out again, but the eppisdee kept playing. Whoever synced up the audio for this eppidsoap should be fired. It showed their undercover Mystery Diner. He was an old man, closely resembling Ron Perlman. But no, he wasn’t Ron Perlman, so that’s why this is a lost eppidose of Mystery Diners and not the next Hellboy movie. His name was Jim Maddeson, and he was posing as a chef. He had been working in Gomorrah for a few days, so he had, rather obviously, gained the utmost trust from the staff. The standard Mystery Diners transition played, and it cut to a shot of Charles leading John into the room from which they would watch over the cameras and command their Mystery Diner. John walked through the door, and seemed amazed at what he had seen. But instead of the usual, “Oh wow Charles, I can see everything in my restaurant,” he just muttered two words. “Mio Dio.” The two walk over to the desk, where they sit down and start to watch the cameras. Charles Stiles leans over the microphone from which he tells his undercover Mystery Diners what to do. He pushes the button to talk. “Alright Jim, can you hear me?” Charles’ voice was very raspy, like he needed a glass of water. Badly. “Uhhhh yeah. I hear you.” “Good. See if you can dig around the kitchen for anything suspicious involving the meat.” “Alright, will do.” The eppifood cuts to a shot from a camera in the back lot. An unmarked eighteen wheeler backs up into the lot. A masked man gets out and walks to the back of the truck. He slides open the trailer door, and climbs in. Johnson Bream walks out the back and stands with his hands on his hips, expectantly. The masked man brought out a large bag, about the size of a person. Johnson Bream walked over to the bag, and pulled on a zipper. I couldn't tell what was in it, but Mr. Bream seemed pleased, and zipped the bag back up. He slung it over his shoulder and walked it inside as the masked man climbed back in the truck, presumably to grab some more bags. The shot then cut to inside of the meat locker, where only a small portion was viewable. Mr. Bream put the bag down. This process repeated for a few more bags. Eventually, they had brought in all of the bags, and Mr. Bream reached into his pocket. He pulled out a fat wad of cash, and handed it to the masked man. The masked man took the money, and sped off. Mr. Bream walked back into the meat room, and began to unzip one of the bags. I couldn’t see what was in the bag. Once he finished unzipping the bag, he pulled it away. I finally saw what was in the bag. A person. But not just any person. It was my father! By this point, Charles and John had noticed what was going on. Charles leaned over the microphone and pressed the button. “Hey, Jim, see if you can get into the meat locker and find out what the heck is going on.” “Alright Charles, will do. But I’ll need a distraction…” Jim’s voice trailed off, as he looked for something that would make some noise. He took a bottle of cooking oil, unscrewed the cap, and poured it all onto the stove. The fire swirled up with a WHOOSH. And the fire alarm began to ring. But the weird part was that the sprinklers didn't engage. Or maybe there were none in the first place. As the fire raged on, Jim walked into the back, and cracked open the meat locker door. Mr. Bream was waiting for him, and hit him over the head with a lead pipe. He dragged his unconscious body into the meat locker. He opened a hidden door, and pulled out a Walther P38, shooting the cameras that were in the room. The camera cut back to Charles and John. “That’s it Charles, I’ve had enough. I gotta go down there and set this straight myslef.” “That’s understandable. You want me to come down there too, just in case it gets ugly.” “No. This is personal.” John got up and stormed out. Why hadn’t they called the police yet? He stomped down the stairs, shown by a bodycam on his tie. He burst through the doors, and stormed into the back. He kicked the meat locker door so hard that he broke a hinge. The bodycam revealed everything inside the meat locker that the cameras had not caught. There were bodies strung up by chains, some cut clean in half. The floor, while smeared with hyper-realistic blood, was surprisingly free of any bodily debris. There were the bodies of fat people laying on tables, slit down the stomach and held open with bones. John leaned over, and puked out of pure terror. John straightened his back, and began to walk towards the other door that had been cracked open just a smidge. As he neared it, there was a soft moaning coming from the door. At first, I thought the moaning was coming from some machine, however, this was quickly disproven by John opening the door all the way. Jim was tied to a BDSM rack that had been repurposed into a butcher’s table. Mr. Bream had began to cut him up, but had stopped when he must have heard John enter the meat locker and throw up. “Oh my god,” John said as he ran up to Jim and began to fiddle with the bindings. “I’ll get you out.” Suddenly, a shot rang out, and Jim was dead. “NOOOOO!” A few more rang out, followed by John screaming and falling to the ground. Mr. Bream walked over to John and aimed his gun at him. “Any last words?” “W-why? Why PEOPLE?” “We’re not serving people instead of more conventional meats just because it’s cheaper. We were told to.” “By who?” What he said next terrified me. “The illuminati.” “THE WHAT!?” “Yes, you heard me right. The secret government organization. The people we were cooking up were people that knew too much of our schemes.” It all made sense to me. My father was always rambling on about how Barack Obama was secretly a lizard person, or how Facebook was actually a ploy by Mark Zuckerberg to indoctrinate the old and dumb into the Illuminati by way of Minion memes and FarmVille. I never thought for a second that he’d be right. That's why he was now nothing more than burger meat. He’d dared to question authority, and had payed the ultimate price. Jim spoke once more. “Who else is involved?” “Not many others. Just the people who worked here. But now, I have to finish the job. You know too much.” “Wait-” The gun went off, and John fell to the ground. The shot cut back to Charles who was staring at the screen. His mouth was wide open, a mix of shock and disgust. He grasped his chest as a coughing fit knocked him to the floor. After 1 minute of coughing, Charles weakly rose up and spoke into the microphone. “Release… the drones.” As Charles collapsed onto the ground, dead, his mouth was stretched unnaturally wide open. Suddenly a plague of locust shaped drones flew out of Charles’ mouth. The drones flew out the door and into the restaurant. They flooded into the meat locker, and surrounded Mr. Bream. I couldn't see what they where doing to him, but I saw what the end result was. Mr. Bream’s skeleton had been picked clean of any flesh or muscle. All that remained were the clean, white, hyper-realistic bones of Mr. Bream. Then the epoidse cut to black. I was paralyzed by fear. After 5 minutes, I could touch me. I whipped my head around to see that the shotgun was still there. Can I move now? Is it over? I thought to myself. All that remained on the TV screen was static. I layed down on my side to avoid the possible shotgun blast, and began to crawl away. The shotgun went off with a BLAM, and destroyed my collection of every Mystery Diners season. I kept crawling. I had to get to a phone and call someone, like a friend. I couldn’t call the police because they could be working for the Illuminati. It took me a few minutes, but I made it. I raised myself up and grabbed the phone. I called my friend (who I will still refer to using his Xbox gamertag) FaZe_CoolGamerJD8. The phone rang, but someone else picked up. “H-hello?! Please, help me!” Silence. “P-please!” “I’m sorry, Archibald, but I can’t do that.” This wasn't FaZe_CoolGamerJD8. This was someone else I didn't recognize. “W-who is this?!” “You know too much. We can't let you go.” “What d-do you want from me?!” “It’s your choice. You either come in with us, or you DIE.” I hesitated. “What do you mean “come in with us?”” “We’ll take you in. You'll get to live, but you will be considered dead. All information about you will be wiped. You’ll have a new face. A new life. Or, we can kill you. It's your choice.” I thought for a second. What did I have left to lose? I decided. “Take me in.” “Good.” A blunt instrument whacked me upside the head. I awoke in a bright white padded cell… ...MANY YEARS LATER... It is now July of 2020. I have been locked up in that cell for a long time. I have lost track of how long. Tomorrow they will release me back into the real world. All records of Archibald Frengrel, my previous self, have been wiped or altered, my family bribed or otherwise taken care of, and my friends silenced. I am no longer Archibald Frengrel. They have changed me. Altered my mind, body, and soul. I am become Charles Stiles, destroyer of illicit restaurant operations. Category:Lost Episodes Category:BCP Category:Pastas